


from the shadows

by OwlEspresso



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26780305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlEspresso/pseuds/OwlEspresso
Summary: The thick, outright obnoxious broad of his horn presses against your lower jaw and cheek, near black hued with purple.
Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	from the shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober is finally here! Rather than post everyday, I’ll aim to post a saucy drabble every three days, and they usually won’t have any specific prompt.  
> shadowmancer or monster mollymauk/reader  
> warning for dubcon  
> Also on my tumblr, which can be found here. https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/

Autumn’s ravenous winds bash against the house siding, sending the shutters rattling and clacking. The ferocity of the gales makes the inside your quaint cabin feel all the cozier, shielded from the elements by thick logs and planks, warmed by the fireplace which crackles in the living room’s hearth. 

Late afternoon has sloped into early evening, leaving you to scavenge one of the thick blankets from the storage closet, tugging it around yourself like a shawl. It does its job, keeping you warm whilst you cook. The ends are clutched together at your chest with one hand whilst the other absentmindedly stirs the macaroni. The wooden spoon clicks against the sides of the metal pot, the only noises besides those produced by the unfortunate storm outside. And the occasional rumble of the oil burner.

It’s a scene of blissful, domestic solitude, untouched by the elements. Your weary eyes stare blankly into the water, bubbles scuttling across the surface above the cluster of cooking pasta. The cozy lighting, coupled with the stove’s heat, warms you. Your trusty blanket practically a suit of armor.

Idyllic. Simple. Safe.

Safe, you think. Safe, even as the hairs on the back of your neck begin to raise. 

It’s a draft, you assume, ignoring the shadows that press behind the room’s walls and divots at awkward, unnatural angles.

I’m just tired, you assure yourself, even as the blackened shapes squirm and wiggle, as though to prove you wrong. You pretend not to notice, tuck yourself closer to the stove like a child huddling under their covers. A quick glance to the clock says that the pasta should be done by now. 

Thus, you reach a trembling hand for the dial, shutting it off. Sparks of blackened, sleek shadow arch and roll across the back of your hand, your arm, dragged backwards as though pulled by nonexistent wind. There is no storm in your humble house, yet the cold still rolls across your skin and seeps to your bones, a harsh juxtaposition to the very sudden, very firm and very real warmth that presses against your back.

There’s someone behind you. Your throat tightens, your hands curl.

“Evenin’, luv,” his lips brush against the shell of your ear. His voice somehow sounds like a carnival, carrying with it echoes of merriment and spectacle. It nearly distracts you from the siren call of his body, felt right through your duvet. “Did you miss me?” 

He presses his cheek to your shoulder and rests his head, like a war-torn husband returned to his wife. The thick, outright obnoxious broad of his horn presses against your lower jaw and cheek, near black hued with purple. You know he’s looking at you. Even if his face has not turned in your direction. You know his shadows stretch far across your pathetic little kitchen, all nine of his red eyes fixated solely on you.

“No,” you school your expression into something dour and firm, standing strong against the temptation.

“Ooh, so cold,” he moans, voice an embezzlement of the sorrow he claims to feel. “After I go through all the trouble of getting here, you still pretend you don’t love me.”

“I don’t,” you say, and he sighs again, the noise carrying with it the wheeze of the accordion. He brings an arm over your shoulder and across your torso, allowing you to see the veritable kaleidoscope of colors so beautifully caressed onto his purple skin. You’ve thought about asking him where he got his tattoos done, but there are more pressing matters to deal with.

“That’s okay. Perfectly alright,” he chimes, not one to be discouraged. Hot lips press to the crook of your neck, wandering up and down the expanse of unmarked flesh. “We have plenty of time for you to be more honest with yourself, lovely. Goosebumps roll up and down your entire body, along your arms, your legs, his shadows creeping into the recesses of your mind and licking every part they can reach.

He’s trying to pull you under, you realize, more surprised at how quickly he’s moving than anything else. With his presence, a slow and syrupy feeling clouds your mind and slows your body, a low purr that resonates from the back of your neck to pool between your thighs.

However, as with most of your interactions, Mollymauk gives you precious little time to think.

Long fingers curl in your comforter’s dense fabric, tugging. You will always lose to him in a contest of raw, physical strength. His lean frame doesn’t betray a heavy amount of pure power, but whatever eldritch blessings he’s endowed with have enhanced every part of him. There’s no use prolonging the inevitable.

You allow the comforter to slope off your shoulders, landing on the cold tile in a crumpled pile. 

“There we go,” he murmurs, satisfied. 

You should be prepared for the press of his greedy hands against your body, but you still startle when one lands on your left hip, the other winding around your waist. An exasperated huff is all you can muster when he pulls you flush against him, allowing you to feel every sharp plane and broad curve of his front.

Something unmistakable hard juts against the small of your back, making you stiffen. Goddamn him and his insatiable thirst goddamn the way in which he steals into your home and interrupts your peace, only to leave the next morning with hardly a goodbye.

His lips press to the crook of your neck, pulling back to grate his teeth against the soft skin he finds. He conquests a blazing path across your flesh, the hand atop your hip delivering you a fond squeeze. Each touch he grants makes your skin heat further, succumbing to the pleasure despite yourself. 

Calloused fingers toy with the waistband of your shorts, having moved slight upwards from your hip. 

“Doesn’t that feel good, darling?” he inquires, and doesn’t give you the chance to respond before those devilish fingers slide into your panties, feeling for your slicked cunt.

“At least let me eat dinner first,” you hiss, jibing his side with your elbow.

“No need to worry about that,” he assures you, the warmth in his voice ill-fitting for the sins he commits with flesh and voice. “I can feed you plenty… just be good and get on your knees.”


End file.
